


d e r a i l e d

by dearg0d



Series: nine lives [3]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Bipolar Disorder, Break Up Fics, Its just angst, M/M, OCD, also mental health, and im not sorry, and project, but not together - Freeform, fuckboy!bill, its a mess, jst, let me self indulge, listen, pure angst, stan is MEAN, two boys in love, you'll hate it but its important
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-07 13:41:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15220370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearg0d/pseuds/dearg0d
Summary: they were meant to be together forever. bill and stan weren't doing a great job.-(aka i listened to too much fall out boy and got inspired)





	d e r a i l e d

**Author's Note:**

> tad ooc, tad dramatic, tad angsty - but what do u expect from me? 
> 
> I wrote this whilst listening to 'Take This To Your Grave' by Fall Out Boy, I strongly recomend. get at me on tumblr - @dearg0d

They had broken up four months ago on the dot. 

Five years, they had spent wrapped up in each other. Forever, they were supposed to have spent. Both men were handling it very differently. 

Bill had moved on, apparently, and didn’t even speak of his ex. Instead, he would speak of his most recent bed guest, shamelessly feeding as much detail as he could get away with to the other losers - most definitely not hoping that it would get back to Stanley. 

It did, of course, and Stanley was beside himself with rage every single time he heard another faceless name. 

He was shamelessly enraged by the entire break up, making absolutely no attempt to get over it, but insisting that he was entirely if anybody confronted him. He didn’t love Bill anymore, he said, he was just angry. He really thought that he despised Bill. 

But he despised himself more. 

Deep down, he knew that the entire split was his fault. It was Bill that had made the final call, Bill that threw him out of the apartment (clothes and suitcase out the window), Bill that insisted he never wanted to see his fucking face again. So far, he had not done a good job of sticking to that. But it was Stanley that pushed him to that point. It was his fault, he believed, his fault alone, and the guilt that came with that was almost unbearable. 

Falling in love with your friends came with risks, they discovered, because if that love fell apart, your other friends felt the brunt of it. 

The break up had impacted the losers club on levels that they weren’t willing to face, and every time they tried to hang out as a seven, vicious arguments would erupt. Stan was too angry to feel guilty about it, and Bill was too distracted to even realise his friends were bothered about it. They had tried to keep out of it, leave them to hate each other as much as they wanted, but that was becoming increasingly more difficult. They couldn’t be the lucky seven. Sad six was more of a fitting title. More recently, if Stan knew Bill would be there, he’d lie about having plans with someone else or having work or an assignment due. Anything to avoid spending time with Bill. The losers had clocked this, and drawn the fucking line. 

“I have an idea,” Eddie announced, two days previous. “I’m sick of their bullshit. And I have an idea.”

“I’m willing to try anything,” Mike had said, “But won’t they be mad at us for interfering?” 

“Aren’t we mad at them?” Eddie countered, “You know, for failing to be civil even for the sake of our-“

“Point taken,” Mike shrugged. 

“Hit us with it Eds,” Richie said, eager to scheme. Eddie hit them with it. And they immediately set it up. 

-

Four months, Stan thought to himself as he walked to Eddies apartment. It was early evening, and he had spent the day wallowing in self pity - not that he would have admitted that to anyone else. Four months, and Bill had already forgotten him. _Didn’t care, didn’t love him, didn’t want to._

Stan repressed another set of tears. 

Eddie and Richie had asked him to come over, he wanted to keep him company during this “sad time”. Although Stan had insisted he wasn’t even sad, he had accepted their offer, always glad of their company. He was also quite pleased that they had asked him, not Bill - smug was an understatement. 

Plus, anything to avoid another sleepless night in his own flat. He didn’t like living there, but it was all he could afford alone, and he refused to move back in with his parents, there were too many memories in his childhood bedroom. His parents house reminded him of Bill and all the memories they’d shared there - all the laughter, forever echoing between the walls, all the cuddling, endless warmth passed from body to body, all the indescribable and uncountable nights spent in their own world. Then there were the painful memories, the intense shouting matches with his parents, the nights spent shaking with fear during that summer in ‘89. Derry wasn’t a place he ever wanted to revisit. 

He’d only truly had one home. The small apartment he and Bill had shared was the only place he had been truly and completely content. But even that was fucked now, and it made him so unbearably angry that Bill let other people into _his_ home, as if he could be replaced. Nobody else had ever shared that bed with him, and he despised that Bill was letting other men and women lay where he once had, beside him, as if anyone else could _ever compare._ He despised more, that he couldn’t let anyone else so much as step foot in his own flat. He couldn’t bring himself to even kiss another person, the thought of having someone else where Bill had been made him shiver. 

But he didn’t want Bill anymore, he told himself, as if maybe he could say it until it was true. 

He got there in ten minutes, and at first, detected nothing out of the ordinary. His friends got him a drink, sat him down in their living room, made pleasant small talk. All of it. 

And then, there a was gut-wrenchingly familiar knock at the door. 

-

Bill was, more than anything, surprised to hear from Eddie and Richie that day. He accepted their offer to go hang out, mostly so he wouldn’t do anything else self destructive. 

He knew it was four months since he had left Stan. He knew that if he stayed home, he would do nothing but sob and stare at the front door he'd shoved Stan through. He knew that he couldn’t do that. Just because he was over him didn’t mean it wasn’t sad to think about. He had loved Stan, more than anything and anyone. He didn’t want to think about that too much, couldn’t bare contemplating the possibility that in four months, that hadn’t changed at all. Because it had, he told himself, it had. 

He set off to Eddies apartment, a short ten minute walk. He wondered if Stanley would be doing anything today, if he would be sat in his new home, curled up crying and listening to some depressing playlist full of the songs they both adored. The idea sent a shocking wave of pain through his heart, he ignored it. He ignored Stanley, these days. It was easier that way, and Bill always took the easy road. 

Bill knocked on the door of his friends dorm, rather than just walking in. He had an easy to identify knock, always tapping the same pattern out. They’d know it was him, but for some reason, didn’t immediately come to the door. Strange, he thought, because he could hear movement and voices from inside. 

He repeated it. 

“Stanley, no!” Eddies voice was clear and loud through the door, and if it hadn’t swung open at that exact moment, Bill knew that he’d have fucking fled. 

“Bill-“ Before he could protest, or do anything at all, Richie had his arm in an iron grip and pulled him into the apartment. “Happy four month anniversary you fuckin’ cunts.” 

Bill looked up. He was nothing but horrified when his eyes met Stanley’s. Stanley looked like he was ready to launch himself out of the window, his eyes darting between Bill and the small circle window at the end of the hall. He didn’t have a chance though, not because the window was impossible to open, or because he would probably break a few bones trying to squeeze through it, but because little Eddie Kaspbrak had physically picked him up, and Stanley was dangling over his shoulders, legs kicking and arms swinging. He wasn’t going anywhere. In any other context, the sight would have been nothing but comical but Bill didn’t feel like laughing. Eddie didn’t either, knowing there was a high chance of Stanley Uris punching him in the face when he was eventually put down. Richie, on the other hand, was wearing the biggest, smuggest smile that Bill had ever seen. 

He realised, a moment too late, this had been a set up. 

“Wh-wh...I-I-“ Bill gave up on words, and did a perfect pivot, ready to march back out of the door and home. He was a fraction too slow, and Richie’s hand was on the door, slamming it shut, his other twisting the key in the lock until it clicked shut. He pulled the key out and slid it into the front of his pants. If Bill thought that he was capable of forming a coherent sentence, he would have yelled more than a few profanities at Richie. 

“I hate you,” Stan spat, though it was unclear whether who in the room he was aiming that at. Eddie let go, and he dropped to the floor with a loud thud, ungracefully. “I fucking hate you.” 

“You’ll thank us for this,” Eddie said, matter of factly. “Get in the bedroom, or do I have to pick you up again-“ 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Stan cut in, standing up and brushing himself off, “No, I am, I’m going home. Let me out.” He motioned to the door, but Richie just shrugged. He wasn’t going to go any closer, not with Bill stood there. Stans eyes flickered back to the window. It wasnt the only window in the apartment, but the second floor accommodation didn’t offer much selection, and the few that opened only did so slightly. 

“Can’t do that Staniel,” Richie said, “Not yet.” 

“You c-can’t hold us h-hostage!” Bill said, his voice wavering as he realised that was, technically, what they were trying to do. 

“Don’t think of it like that,” Eddie said. “That makes it sound cruel.”

“Locking me in an apartment with that asshole is cruel, Eddie!” Stan yelled, his voice cracking. He hated this. Hated the idea of being forced to talk to Bill, hated that his friends were making him. Hated that they didn’t understand why he couldn’t do that. To be fair, he had never let them understand. When they had split, they never really explained why. Their countless public arguments never gave much away either. The losers didn’t know why it was so painful for Stan to so much as look at Bill, vice versa. 

Bill didn’t even flinch at the name-calling, thought he had never said an honest bad word about Stan in his life, not even during the break up, and certainly not after. It was challenge enough to say the name, and he had no desire to drag it through the mud. It probably should have bothered him that Stanley spoke so low of him, but it didn’t. He didn’t know whether it was just because he expected it and had adjusted after four months, or because he felt that he deserved it. 

“You’re so dramatic,” Richie sneered, which was unfair really. “We’re doing this for your own good! You fuckwits can have it out with each other, fuck and makeup - or at least shake hands and be civil.” 

“No,” Bill said, his voice firm and certain. The idea sounded just as hellish to him as it did to Stan, but part of him, a small part, was curious as to where that conversation would go. They had never said everything they wanted to say, there was definitely unfinished business. “You c-c-can’t make us. Th-That’s n-not fair.” 

“Tough shit,” Richie shrugged, “Now get your skinny ass into the bedroom Denbrough, we cant barricade any other door.” 

Although the apartment was definitely on the more up-market end of the scale, the architecture was a little bit fucked up. The doors opened outwards, all swinging into the small, narrow hallway. Eddies place also lacked furniture, which he liked usually, but was making their masterplan a little more complicated. The plan, if it went ahead, included placing the bookcase in front of the bedroom door. It was too heavy to move to any other, and was the only thing in the hallway big enough to block a door. So far though, the plan hadn't gone at all how it was supposed to. In it's original form, they planned on tricking Stan into the bedroom before Bill arrived, only to do the exact same thing with Bill moments later - then lock it before escape was possible and leave for a while. Nothing had gone to plan, but they hadn't prepared for that. 

“No,” Bill said, “I-I-I’m g-gonna call s-someone, there’s no way-“ 

“Snitches get stitches,” Richie said, far too playful for the mood in the apartment in that moment. “Don’t bother with any of the losers though. They're not gonna come by and give me or Eds here a slap on the wrist-”

“Do th-they all know?” Bill asked, annoyed by that idea. Coming from Richie and Eddie, this set up wasn’t all that shocking, but it surprised both Bill and Stanley that Mike or Ben or even Bev, would allow them to do this. It wasn’t fair, it was childish and twisted.

“Of course,” Richie said. 

“I can’t believe this,” Stan mumbled, sliding down against the wall and sitting on the floor. He looked like he was about to cry, and Eddie felt a pang of guilt. But then he looked to Bill, who was staring at Stan with a spark in his eye, mouth hanging open as if the sight pained him. It reminded him exactly why they were doing this, and the guilt kind of drained. “You’re all fucked up. I hope you know that. This is torture-“

“Dramatic fuck,” Richie repeated, shaking his head. He made eye contact with Eddie, wondering if they had the same idea. Eddie nodded at him, and within a second, they were both moving. 

Eddie, being the smaller one (but by no means weaker), rushed at Stan. He grabbed his ankles and kicked the bedroom door open. Stan was kicking at him and attempting to grip the carpet, which was a pointless move as it slid through his fingers. It didn’t hurt at all, but the fact Eddie was even trying to drag him somewhere against his will was infuriating. He was screaming, yelling abuse at Eddie with expletives on par with Richie’s vocabulary. _Hysterical._

“Get the fuck off of me!” Bill was in a more painful predicament. Richie didn’t mean to hurt him, this was all fun and games to him, and Bill was a strong boy. Richie knew, that if Bill really wanted, he could have overpowered him with ease. But he didn’t. He let Richie get him into some pathetic attempt at a choke-hold, only grumbling unhappily in protest. He didn’t even swing at him, he just let it happen. 

Richie wasn’t the only one that noticed the lack of fight. Stan was watching, looking up at Bill from the floor as he yelled and kicked at his smaller friend. There was no resistance, nothing beyond weak words, and Stan noticed immediately. It made Stan feel something, but he wasn’t sure what. 

“Don’t, please Eddie,” Stan said, his tone suddenly much more desperate. He sounded like he was about to beg, “Eddie you can’t do this to me!” 

Eddie, being Eddie, froze. He was in the bedroom door, trying to manoeuvre Stan inside as painlessly as possible. “Stan...”

_“Please,”_ Stan, finally, was sobbing. The room went silent. Eddie let go, and his feet crashed down by the side of the open door. 

Richie sighed and let go of Bill, who simply rubbed his neck and looked the other way. The door was locked, but he had an urge to go to it anyway. He couldn’t watch Stan cry. He couldn’t. 

“I fucking hate you all,” Stan cried, kicking at Eddie again. Eddie let him kick, the guilt returning. They had expected resistance, an argument, but not this. Stan was in pain, and Eddie hadn’t really prepared himself to deal with that. They should have known it was going to trigger him into an episode, and Eddie was upset that he hadn't considered that - none of them had. 

“No,” Bill said, speaking directly to him for the first time since whenever their last fight had been - maybe a month. “You h-h-hate _me._ And th-they’re t-t-trying to fix that.” 

Stan didn’t know if he wanted it to be fixed. He had adjusted to being broken, to living with the mind consuming rage. He didn’t know if it was even possible for that to go away, it was so overwhelming, and fogged his rational train of thought. 

But he did know that it was worth trying to fix. Even if that was for the sake of his friends, and not his own mental health. It was draining, being in so much pain. Maybe this was the only way to make that stop, as hard as it was going to be. 

“He gets it,” Richie said, but his voice was softer. He crouched to Stans level, and Stan shut his eyes, blinking back tears. He felt stupid, a twenty year old man throwing a fit on the floor because he didn’t want to face his ex.

Stupid. Or maybe just heartbroken - but it took a lot to admit that. “But you can go, if you really want, Stan.”

“I do really want,” Stan spat, sitting up and wiping his eyes, his face stoney yet riddled with shame. 

“You know why we were doing this though, right?” Richie said it more like a statement than a question, but if it was the latter, he answered it himself. “You don’t know. You haven’t even thought about how fucked up this is for the rest of us. And I know that it’s harder for you two, and this shouldn’t be about us, but it’s pretty fucking uncomfortable having to deal with you two either ignoring and avoiding each other or having fucking ridiculous screaming matches. Sort it out. Stop letting you’re shit affect the rest of us.” 

“Yeah,” Eddie said, speaking to them both, “But I’m sorry we did this. I...I thought it was the right thing. It was stupid of me, selfish even. It’s between the two of you.” 

“It’s fine,” Bill sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You're right though, Richie. I-It sh-should affect anyone else...I-I-I’ll do it, I’ll s-stay i-if Stan will. I’ll try.” Stans eyes shot open. Richie and Eddie exchanged uncertain looks of triumph. 

“Stan?” Eddie asked, “How does that sound?” It sounded like hell. But Stan couldn’t give Bill the satisfaction of saying no. If Bill was going to act like he wanted to fix it, Stan would pretend to, if only in front of Richie and Eddie. He had no doubt that a screaming match would commence as soon as their backs were turned. 

“Fine,” Stan mumbled, “I’ll try.”

-

The terms were agreed. Eddie and Richie would leave them, lock them in the apartment (not a cramped bedroom) for one hour - not a second longer. If either one of the boys called, they had to return immediately and take them both home, and they would forget the entire thing had ever happened. 

As soon as the door clicked shut, Stan regretted his decision. It was the last place on earth he wanted to be, but he did know it was where he needed to be. With Bill. 

The silence was cutting. Stan sat on the edge of the couch, his eyes blank and staring at the turned off Television set. Bill was stood, leaning against the door frame, his eyes full of something unreadable, staring at the other man. 

They had been alone five minutes before one of them spoke up. “I-I-I g-guess we should start t-trying then.” 

-

It had been falling apart for a long time. Stan could barely remember what it felt like to have a healthy relationship. Stan could barely remember what it felt like to be healthy at all. His mental health had been at an all time low, and though Bill was doing his best, it wasn’t enough. He couldn’t fix it, but he didn’t understand that, and it only frustrated Stan more. 

They’d been having petty arguments over everything and nothing. It happened, they knew, with most couples. But there had been a time when a fight, when any form of disagreement, was alien to them. The fact daily arguments had become the norm made them both sick to their stomachs, they knew it wasn't normal, that it shouldn't have been that way, yet they couldn't seem to stop themselves. It was never anything serious, never truly nasty, just stupid bickering about Bill leaving the house a mess, or forgetting to buy more milk at the store. Stupid. Stan, to begin with, initiated them - snapping when he’d had a particularly bad day, or giving Bill the silent treatment when he couldn’t handle human interaction. It got worse when his boss forced him to take sick leave, and Stan went into meltdown mode. He got worse.

The more his mental health deteriorated, the worse his attitude got, and the worse his self-loathing became. They all knew where it stemmed from. And that root began to show itself, first in the form of passing thought, sudden memories and unusual reminders unstitching the wound. Then, the nightmares. Stan hated them more than anything, and they were relentless. Sleep paralysis, flashbacks, at his worst: hallucination. By then, Stan had stopped talking about it. He couldn't handle it, doubted the words would even form in his mouth. It only made his relationship with Bill disintegrate more. 

Bill was brilliant at first, patient and loving and caring, and Stan seemed to calm. But then he didn’t, and they were back to square one, constant shouting and snapping. Bill noticed that he was starting arguments just as frequently as Stan. 

It was as if Stan did it on purpose though, automatically responding to half of what Bill said with irrational venom. It was as if Stan was trying to push Bill away, trying to make him want to leave. 

And to some degree, he was. 

It was a deep rooted issue, stemming mostly from Stans unrelenting mental illness and Bills unrelenting determination to fix everything. Stan was convinced he would never get better, his mind told him so. His mind told him he did not deserve Bills love. His mind told him that he did not need Bills love, that Bills love was the issue, because he was reliant on it, because it would run out, because he could _never_ return that level of overwhelming adoration. 

His mind told him a lot of lies. He knew this, but listened anyway. Listened, when his mind told him to shout at Bill. Listened, when his mind told him to refuse Bills affections. Listened, when his mind told him Bill was going to leave him and find better. Maybe that one was right, but he had nobody to blame but himself. 

Bill couldn’t bare it, the loveless way Stan would stare at him, how he’d snatch his hand away whenever Bill tried to take it into his own, how any form of physical affection became rare and limited. He couldn’t bare watching Stan crumble. And for too long, he had allowed himself to be drained by Stanley’s erratic and irrational behaviour, watching him throw his meds down the sink even when Bill begged, pleaded with him to take them. Watching, as Stanley would frantically clean the apartment four times a day, throwing a fit if Bill left so much as a pen out on the side. Watching, as Stanley bounced between moods and wants. Watched his own boyfriend seemingly fall completely out of love with him. 

Bill was used to fighting monsters in sewers, not monsters in his boyfriends mind. And it was so much harder, harder than he had ever expected it to be. 

Bill didn’t like hard, Bill liked simplicity. Maybe that was why he quit. Or maybe he was just weak and tired and drained. He didn’t know, really, he just knew he could never forgive himself for abandoning Stanley that night. 

The final straw came on a cold evening, four months prior. Bill knew, that since then, Stanley had returned to his psychiatrist, was taking his meds again, and according to the other losers was much more “himself”. But that didn’t change what Stanley had done. 

He couldn’t help it, Bill knew that much even at the time, but that didn’t make it any easier. He snapped that day. Guilt had consumed him ever since. 

Bill had been out with friends, not the losers, people from work, people he met since leaving Derry. Stanley loved them all, but said he felt too shitty to go out. He told Bill to go ahead anyway. Bill always did what Stanley wanted, and it was nice to get out of the apartment, nice to not have to sit around waiting for some bullshit argument to commence. Stanley was curled up with a book when Bill left, and seemed at peace with everything. 

He was late home. Very late. He knew Stanley would be upset, tired, annoyed. It was partly why he delayed going home for so long. He expected Stan to be curled up asleep when he went back, so when he entered to find Stan sobbing on the couch, he was filled with an unsurprising amount of guilt. 

He did his best to begin with, as always. Stan didn’t even look up, not even when Bill sat beside him and pulled him into an embrace, kissed the top of his head, nor when he whispered soft apologies into his ear. Stan continued to sob, head in hands, ignorant to his pleading boyfriend. It was only when Bill prized Stans hands from his face that he got a response. 

_“Don’t,”_ Stan whispered, “Dont. Fucking. Touch me.” His eyes were screwed shut. Bill let go, sitting back and freezing up. He didn’t get it, not really. He felt it was an over reaction, he was late home, and had text Stan throughout the night to let him know of his whereabouts and what not - not that he even owed it to him to do so, and not that Stan ever really asked that of him. He wasn’t like that, wasn’t needy in that way, wasn’t possessive to any extreme. 

“What’s this about?” Bill had asked. Stan had only sobbed more in response, and Bill didn’t know what to make of that. He didn’t know what to make of Stan, anymore. And it was killing him. “Let me h-help you.”

“You can’t,” Stan replied, because he believed it to be true. He hadn’t been sobbing because Bill was late home, he was glad Bill was out, having a good time. Stan was sobbing because he knew, that even if Bill had been there holding him and telling him everything was going to be okay, that the god awful feeling in his stomach would never go away. And he hated it. Hated himself. And Bill just didn’t get it - couldn’t get it. Bill could not save him. And Stan didn’t feel like he deserved to be saved anyway. 

“I can help you help y-yourself,” Bill offered, a promise he had made so many times in the past. They were just more empty words to Stan. “Please.”

He would have done anything. Anything. And he tried, he really tried - sat there with him, begging and pleasing for Stanley to talk to him, to let it out. He was persistent, and it pissed Stan off, and he knew it did. Stan wanted to curl up in bed and cry himself to sleep, he didn't want Bill to keep going on and on and on about getting him help. Bill didn't stop though, didn't stop talking. Stan could feel the fury slowly building inside of him, that vile heat prickling all over his body as he became more and more wound up by Bill's words. He just wouldn't shut the fuck up about how he wanted to help - how he was going to help. 

But Stanley wouldn’t let him. Stanley didn’t want him to waste his time trying. He responded in the only way his mind would allow him, by yelling. And shit, did he yell. “You can’t. You don’t get it! You never get it! There’s nothing you can do, Bill. Stop trying to be a fucking hero! I’m a wreck, and you don’t want to be here - I know you don’t! So give up with this bullshit act. Why do you always try to save everybody? I'm not some fucking damsel in distress, I’m not a fucking princess locked in a tower. I’m sick, Bill. I’m sick and I’m trapped and you can’t do anything! _You’re half the fucking reason I'm so fucked up anyway!_ That fucking house! That fucking clown! The fucking woman- That was all your fucking fault! You made me go, you fucked me up - and for what Bill? You couldn’t save Georgie and _you can’t save me!”_

That was when Bill Denbrough snapped. 

He didn’t say anything, not a word. Slowly, he stood up, rigidly as if his body was frail and bruised. He marched into their bedroom with his jaw clenched so tightly he thought it might break, then pulled the wardrobe doors open so forcefully it was a wonder they didn’t snap off. Still silent, he began ripping Stans neatly organised clothes from their hangers. 

Stanley, mortified with himself, followed him to their bedroom. He watched as Bill trashed the room, kicking the lamp in the corner to the floor, swiping their photos from the wall. All the while, yelling for him to stop, yelling out apology after apology after apology. He didn’t mean it, he didn’t mean it. _He didn’t fucking mean it!_

But Bill didn’t care. And he certainly didn’t stop. He’d had enough. He didn’t care that he was triggering Stanley’s OCD, didn’t care that he was sending the love of his fucking life into hysterics. Didn’t care about anything. He opened the bedroom window, ignoring Stan as he ran around the room, picking things up and crying out a thousand apologies. Then, he began to throw the clothes out.

“No-“ Stan wailed, “Bill-“ He grabbed his arm. Bill shook him off, almost too violently. 

_“Dont fucking touch me,”_ Bill snarled, a perfect imitation. Stanley froze up, and Bill continued to empty the room of Stans belongings, the front lawn scattered with clothes and books and accessories. 

“Bill stop this,” Stan cried out, desperate, “Bill I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it, you know I didn’t mean it-“ 

“I don’t care,” Bill spat. A lie. “I don’t give a fuck, Stanley. I’m d-done. I can’t deal with you’re stupid, pathetic w-whining! I can’t do anything right! I’ve done everything you for, everything! You’re right, I can’t save you, s-so I’m done trying. Go break someone else’s heart.” 

“Are you kicking me out?” Stanley asked, then more distraught, “Are you breaking up with me?” 

“Well apparently,” Bill said, “I’m only with you to save you, not because I’m in love with you, not because you’re the b-b-best thing that’s ever happened to me, I’m j-just trying to cure you. But I can’t, can I? So what the f-f-fucking point?” 

“Bill,” Stanley was almost wailing, knelt on their - his - Bills - bedroom floor, clutching the duvet so tightly his knuckles were bright white. “Bill don’t, please.”

“You sound pathetic,” Bill hissed. He pulled their suitcase out, a small thing, much too small for all of Stanley’s belongings, and fucking launched it outside. “Just shut you’re fucking mouth, for once!” 

The tables had turned, and in some sick way, Bill felt satisfied. 

“Bill please,” Stanley continued to sob, “I love you!” It was the first time he’d said it in weeks. It was too late. 

“You f-f-f-fucking liar!” It was the first time Bill hadn’t said it back. “I don’t want to see your fucking face again.” 

He didn’t mean it, but what did that matter? The damage was done, and they both blamed themselves. Stanley left, gathered his things from the grass, then somehow made his way over to Eddies. 

Nobody had expected the break up to last. Four months on, people were still hopeful that it was nothing more than a regrettable break. 

Deep down, both of them hoped with all their hearts that was still the case. 

-

"I-I-I'll start," Bill said, when he got no response from Stanley. "How are you doing?" It was a wholesome question, a fair one, but also loaded and hard to answer. Stanley didn't want to answer, wasn't even sure he could form the words. He was in shock, still, unsure of how to respond to being thrown into such a fucked up situation. He had wanted this conversation with Bill, but he hadn't prepared for it, and he certainly hadn't expected it to come that day. 

"I'm..." Stan took a moment, tried to compose himself, tried to will away the lump in his throat that was most definitely going to force out more tears. "I'm good." 

"Are you?" There wasn't a single bit of Bill that believed it. Stanley hadn't really expected him to, he just said it because it was easy. Bill liked easy.

"No," Stanley corrected himself, "I'm bad, really fucking bad. How are you, Bill? How's your life going? Are you good? Are you happy now you can bed whichever twink-" 

"Can w-we leave out th-th-the buh-bullshit?" Bill huffed. Stanley was already getting angry, but he wasn't surprised. It was his automatic response, a defence mechanism, and Bill was willing to deal with it as he had always tried to - with patience and softness. "I d-don't want to f-fuh-fuh-fight." 

"Could have fooled me." 

"I'm bad too," Bill confessed, ignoring the bitter comment. He knew that Stanley hated him seeing other people, and to begin with, that was his sole reason for doing it. He had hoped Stanley would hate the idea so much, he'd come crawling back. Bill didn't get the response he wanted, mostly because Stan was too stubborn to give him the satisfaction, but he continued with the serial monogamy because he liked it. There was some fun in having sex with almost-strangers, he loved sex, but he loved more the ease that came with falling asleep next to someone. He hated sleeping alone. Sleeping around just made everything much less lonely, it was no longer stemming from spite or bitterness, it was just his way of dealing with the loneliness of it all. He wondered if Stan had adjusted to that part of it yet. 

"How's the apartment?" Stanley asked, completely diverting the conversation. It was an irrelevant question in the grand scheme of things. He had been back once since Bill threw him out, only to collect a few things that Bill forgot to launch through their window. It had made him sick how messy Bill had let it get. It didn't feel like their home anymore, and Stan wondered if it ever could again. 

"Fine," Bill lied. It was a mess, but he wasn't about to admit that, wasn't about to tell Stan that he hated tidying up without him, that he hadn't made the bed once since he left, that he never got round to doing the dishes and had completely forgotten which food went in which cupboard. "Are you suh-stuh-still taking your meh-meds? Is the new doh-doctor helping?" The fact Bill even knew that Stanley had started back on his medication, or that he changed doctor, told Stan something he didn't know five minutes ago - Bill had been _asking_ about him. The losers had told him these things, he wanted to know, and it made Stan's heart twist. 

"Yes," Stanley told him, voice small and almost shaking as he spoke the truth, "I...I think more clear now. I hadn't lashed out, before today, for an entire month, more even." Bill repressed a smile. It was relieving to hear, even if he wasn't supposed to care anymore. 

"That's amazing," Bill said. Stanley just shrugged. He wasn't better, but he sometimes felt like he was getting there. They'd upped his dosage, and he wondered if that had anything to do with it. And he wasn't living with Bill, feeling constant anger and guilt and worry, so he wondered if that had anything to do with it. He hoped not, hoped that it was just his brain slowly working through, healing itself. "Y-Y-You kind of had a ruh-right to lah-lash out today." He walked further into the room, daring to sit down on the opposite end of the couch. Stanley turned slightly, not looking at him, but angling himself in that direction. 

"It was the shock," Stanley explained, "I didn't prepare myself to deal with seeing you. I didn't even want to think about you...not today." 

"They're doing th-this for us," Bill said, "But they don't know how hard it is." They exchanged a look, a knowing one, that said "we were right not to tell them". After the break up, it was never agreed that they shouldn't tell anyone why, but a silent promise to suppress the story for both of their sakes. Stanley didn't want any of his friends to know he had said something so brutal and cruel, he was too ashamed. Bill didn't want anybody to think he was a terrible person for failing Stanley, for kicking him to the curb when he needed him, or talking down to him how he had. It didn't matter what Stanley said about Georgie to him anymore, it stung, but he didn't blame Stan - he knew it was the sickness talking, he knew they were empty words designed to hurt him, they had little truth behind them. Bill was too forgiving to stay bitter about it. 

"How is this hard for you?" Stanley asked, curious above anything. He believed Bill was over it all, over him. He didn't know that Bill was in just as much pain as him because he was incredible at hiding it, and did so intentionally. "I mean, no, that came out wrong. Obviously it's hard, it's awkward and-" 

"Painful," Bill corrected, his eyes fixed on the boy beside him. Stanley wasn't returning the gaze, his own eyes locked on his shaking hands. He feared that if he looked at Bill, he would break down again. It was taking everything in him to maintain complete self control, but he knew he had to, for Bill. "It's p-painful for me too." 

_"Why?"_

Bill thought about it. There were a thousand different answers he could have given, all with some degree of truth. Maybe he could tell Stanley that this just served as a reminder, and it hurt to think about because of how bad things had been. He could have told Stanley that it hurt because he pitied him, because he felt guilty for leaving seeing that he was still broken. But none of that would have been entirely true, because those things, although they factored into Bill's agony, were not the bottom line of his pain. That all stemmed from one place, and that place was the reason they were both sat there, locked in their friends apartment, forced to talk it out. Because everyone else could see it. "Because I-I-I stuh-still luh-love you." 

Stanley felt a punch to his heart. 

"A-And, I didn't wanna d-deal with that," Bill continued, "It's hard. It's hard to th-think about, to ah-ah-admit that I still...I miss you." 

"Don't lie to me," Stanley whispered it, his voice shaking. He didn't think Bill was really lying, but the idea of it being anything else felt too good to be true, felt much too good. And it didn't make sense, because if it was really the case, why was Bill doing everything he did? How could he sleep around knowing he was in love with someone else? How could he act so careless, so distant? But even if it was bare, brutal honesty, Stanley still didn't want to get his hopes up. Just because Bill loved him, did not mean he wanted him back. He probably didn't want to still love him, it was probably something he was working to fix every second of every day. 

"We're not here to l-lie to each other," Bill said, "This is about h-having it out. Unfinished business." There was a silence after that, a long and cutting silence. Bill didn't want to keep talking, he had said enough - but not everything he wanted to. Stan didn't know what to say, much too gobsmacked to form a sentence. He didn't want to say anything else he didn't mean, he didn't want to lash out again - but he was afraid, because he knew those things weren't entirely in his control. For now, he felt on the edge of calm, and his mood was considerably positive for the circumstances. He just needed it to stay that way, needed to hold it together. 

"Then let's start from the beginning," Stanley finally said, giving and turning to face Bill. When he really looked, he could see the changes in him. Stanley noticed how his hair seemed longer, as if he hadn't gotten round to cutting in without Stan's reminders. His stubble was coming through too, without Stan requesting he shave it whenever the hairs started to prickle (it looked fucking beautiful, but the aesthetic wasn't worth the itch). He looked slimmer too, barely, but noticeable to Stan. And his eyes were sad, so fucking sad. But hopeful, too. 

"I-I-I-I doh-don't even know where it d-did start," Bill sighed. He remembered when Stan started getting bad, but it never impacted their relationship heavily back then, because Stan just talked about everything, he was getting professional help and he still acted, for the most part, like his usual self. There was no set turning point, no sudden moment in which Bill realised that wasn't the case anymore - it happened too slowly for anyone to catch on. He spoke of their traumatic summer of '89 more often, and then confessed he was having nightmares. Those never stopped, but Stanley stopped speaking about it. When Bill asked, out of concern, Stanley would get angry. "Th-The nightmares?" 

Stanley woke up screaming every night for a week, and got unnaturally pissy every time Bill asked him what was wrong. It occurred to Bill in that moment, that maybe that was the turning point. Maybe he lost Stanley in those long, restless nights spent cuddling him back to sleep, kissing his head trying to will the bad dreams away. 

"The nightmares," Stanley confirmed, somehow managing to keep his voice flat. He shuddered at the memory, ashamed of how much terror they had managed to instil in him. He knew they weren't real, but when they were happening, and even in the aftershock, it had all felt too intense not to be real. He didn't want to think about them, and had wanted to even less so at the time. He knew, now, that his fear didn't justify yelling at Bill the way he had those nights, but at the time there had been no thought process behind his actions. Back then, Stanley _felt_ and _responded._

"Can y-y-ou tah-talk about them now?" Bill asked, softly. He wanted to reach out, wanted to bring Stanley into him, hold him how he once had every night. Bill didn't think that would go down well, didn't think that would be acceptable. He didn't want to make Stan uncomfortable, that was the last thing he wanted. 

"I don't think I ever will," Stanley replied, "I want to. I just...I can't - and I tried to tell you that. I just- the words- I can't-" He was getting worked up. Bill tensed. 

"It's okay," Bill reassured him. The gap between them was too large for him to touch Stanley, but if not, he was sure he'd have pressed a hand to his shoulder or leg. He wanted to, so, so badly. They hadn't been this close since the split, and Bill could feel himself being drawn back into Stan's energy. "It's fine i-if you c-can't, o-or just don't want to. I-I-I-I know that now, and I sh-should have at the time." 

"It doesn't make how I reacted okay," Stan mumbled, breaking the eye contact again, eyes returning to his hands. "Nothing makes any of that okay." His voice finally cracked. The tears finally fell. Bill couldn't stop himself, shuffling across the couch with a sense of urgency. He automatically went to put his arms around Stan, but before the contact was made, Stan fucking _leaped_ up. 

"Woah-" Bill shot back across the couch, returning to the other corner. Stan looked like he'd been burned, staring at Bill with a lost look in his eye. 

"Don't," Stanley cried out, backing away. "I-I...I hate it when you do that." He didn't sound angry, he just sounded afraid. Bill stared at him, awaiting a further explanation. He had expected Stanley to flinch, to reject the touch, but he didn't understand the comment. What exactly did 'that' entail? He didn't understand. Once again. 

"Oh." 

"Not entirely the touching," Stan explained, "I...I just- You always do _that_ \- touching me and saying things to me when I'm having a meltdown and I know you're trying to help, I get it - right now - but it's patronising and when I'm in that state it just...I don't know, it gets to me too bad, it sets me off, because-because you never listened to me when I said there was nothing you could do. Holding me doesn't make me feel better at all, Bill, and whenever you did that it just felt like you were minimising everything, like you could just say a couple of cliche lines and I'd cheer the fuck up and- I hated it. I hated that you thought you could make anything better. I hated that you couldn't." Stanley realised, for the first time ever he had managed to communicate that to Bill, and if maybe he had expressed that four or more months ago, they wouldn't be sat having the conversation they were. The words had never formed in his mind before though, he had never fully understood it himself. The break up had forced him to consider it in more depth, as had his psychiatrist. 

Bill felt kind of stumped. He hadn't thought of it like that before - he had never intended to be patronising. "Oh." 

"I don't even know if that made sense," Stanley said, wondering if Bill's silence meant that he was hurt. Maybe he was, to an extent, but no more so than he had been in the past. There was no possible way for them to have such a conversation without hurting each other a little, it was to be expected given the nature. "But I'm sorry that I never explained that, I don't think I understood it myself, then." 

"I-I-I get it," Bill replied. He was almost angry that Stan hadn't explained that to him months ago, almost angry that he had never considered that concept before right now. Angry that it had gotten so fucked up, so unnecessarily. Angry that Stanley thought Bill believed giving him affection would fucking cure him - he wasn't that naive. "Buh-But do you think I only did that stuff to make you f-feel better? I-I knew it wasn't muh-much, ah-and I wasn't doing it because I th-thought it would fix anything. I juh-just wanted to be there and you made it so fucking hard-" 

"I didn't want you to be there," Stanley confessed, "Not because I didn't love you, I did- I _do!_ I just didn't like you seeing me like that, and I didn't like that you made me more emotional, and I was afraid that the more you were there, the more I'd push you away, which I guess was right. I wanted you there, Bill, I just didn't want you there like that. I didn't want to need you how I think you thought I needed you." 

"I never th-thought you needed me," Bill protested, "Fucking hell Stanley, I juh-just- I did wah-want you to need me, buh-but only because I needed you so bad. And you weren't _you_ back then, really, n-not th-that it was your fault." 

"It was me." Stanley's voice was firmer, insistent. "It's part of who I am. It's me, it's just not a nice side, it's not the part you love or need or want. But the person I am capable of being is still me, it's just not the Stan you know, or like. I don't like being like that either, I hate myself at the best of times, but even more so when I feel like that. You don't have to like it Bill, but don't try to minimise it. Don't try to act like it's not really me or that it will go away - we don't know that it ever will." Bill hated that he was right. 

"I love every part you," Bill said, with an ease and certainty that made Stanley _burn_ in the best way possible. He half expected to start crying again, because only an hour ago he had believed that he would never hear those words from Bill's mouth again, and had somehow forgotten how angelic they sounded. "Even ah-at you're very worst." 

"You weren't saying that two weeks ago," Stanley mumbled, swiftly moving them onto yet another thing they needed to discus. As much he wanted to listen to Bill pour out loving words, they both needed more explanations. There was too much still unsaid. The fact 'I love you' was already off of that list filled them both with a hope that had previously half-died. "You told them you were over me." 

"S-So did you," Bill pointed out. 

"But you said it first, I was just retaliating. I wasn't gonna admit that I was fucking heart broken when you were acting fine." Stan didn't know how Bill hadn't known that was the case. To him, it was glaringly obvious how in love with him he had always been. Bill had seen something different though, at least in the man he had thrown out four months ago. 

"I was never fine," Bill scoffed, trying to keep the hurt from his tone, "You a-ac-acted like you didn't l-love me. I-I didn't w-want to love you anymore - of course I was goh-gonna tell them all I didn't. And I-I guess, at th-the s-start I was that angry that maybe I did believe it a little. But I was l-l-lying to myself more than anyone else." The self-awareness was surprising to them both. 

"I wasn't," Stanley admitted, "I knew, like I knew I wasn't over you at all, but I didn't want anybody else to know that because it just seemed humiliating because you were-" His voice broke. He didn't want to say it, could barely bring himself to say it. Somehow, the words managed to come out. "You were already fucking other people." He spat it, like they tasted disgusting, and they did. Bill was never meant to fuck anybody but him. He had always imagined that would be the case for him, even after the split, he wanted Bill to be his one and only - but maybe that was the hope talking above the romance. 

"I-I-I-I'm a-allowed to d-do that," Bill argued, "I'm s-s-single ah-and I-I don't know, I-I don't have to juh-justify that one to you!" It was a fair enough point, because on paper he owed Stanley nothing. There was nothing to say that was wrong, because he could handle it how ever the fuck he wanted to, and Stanley wasn't allowed to say anything. He was allowed to hurt, of course, but there was nothing more he could do. This wasn't about technicalities or social freedoms though, it was about respect, and trust. Stanley wasn't asking because he was mad or because he was curious, he was asking because he needed to know. He didn't exactly want to, but he needed to know why Bill had to go and do that - needed to. 

"I couldn't do it," Stanley said, his voice small, "I didn't even try. The thought made me so...uncomfortable. I don't think anyone could compared to you-" and not because he was _good_ or anything like that, just because he was Bill. And Bill was everything and anything he needed. "-I don't want or trust anyone but you like that. And-I- I was hurt, because you went out and found someone else to fuck straight away. After five fucking years. I don't care that you did it, I just care about why, because I fucking wish I could have." And he did, Stanley didn't spend the entire time wishing Bill was there, he spent a lot of it wishing he _didn't_ wish that Bill was there, and wishing he could just go out and hook up with whoever caught his eye. 

Bill thought about it. He always wanted to give Stanley what he needed, that really hadn't changed. 

"What I dih-did had n-no b-bearing on my feelings towards you," Bill explained, deciding that maybe he did owe that to Stanley, deciding that even if he didn't owe it to Stanley, he wanted to be honest with him because wasn't that the point? If he didn't give Stan an answer, the conversation wasn't going to end in his favour. "I stah-started sleeping around because I was alone. I wah-wanted to wake uh-up next to somebody. I l-liked having p-people around. It was a fuh-fucking distraction, Stanley. I needed to do it, o-or I-I-I don't even know h-how I would've dealt with everything, be-because I missed you like sh-shit, a-and every single time I was with someone I th-thought of you b-" Bill was crying this time. Stanley understood why he didn't want to discuss this part of it all. 

"It killed me, Bill," He said, voice flat and somehow emotionless. He didn't feel emotionless though, he felt every emotion under the fucking sun. It was almost unbearable. "It makes me sick, thinking about you with _anyone_ but me." It was the brutal truth, and this was about being honest, wasn't it? 

"Nobody ever compared," Bill told him, silent tears streaming down his face. Stan walked back over to the couch, sitting beside Bill with an awkwardness that at one time would never have existed in their worst nightmares. "Nobody ever could." 

"You deserve someone worth ten of me." 

"I don't want s-someone worth ten th-thousand of you." 

The angle was awkward. It wasn't as fast or smooth as Stanley had intended, and Bill had seen it coming from a mile away, but the kiss was still the best thing that had happened to him in four months of hell. It lasted all of two minutes before Bill braved pulling away, his hands holding onto Stan's face for dear life, like the touch wasn't nearly enough. In all honesty, it wasn't. He wanted - no - needed more, and not even in a sexual context, in any context. 

"I hate that it took Richie and Eddie locking us in their fucking apartment for us to do this," Stanley mumbled. Bill hated that was the first thing Stan had thought of after kissing him, but it didn't matter all that much, because Stanley had just kissed him, and that was all that mattered in that moment. Stan did have a point though, because it was almost pathetic that it had taken so much and so long for them to fall back into each other - but not entirely surprisingly considering how painfully stubborn both men were. "I'm glad though. I mean, there's still a lot to talk about-" 

"Like what?" Bill quizzed, as if everything was solved just because they'd kissed. He was sickeningly romantic like that. "Stan-" 

"I'm still sick," Stanley scoffed, bewildered by Bill's naivety, "And I still said what I said, and you still-" 

"I w-want to work through it," Bill insisted, "I-I-I was the one that g-g-gave up, and I've reh-regretted it every day since, Stan. This was never meant to happen, this isn't how we end - teh-tell me you know that!" Stanley sighed. His mind was in another war against itself - one half wanting to insist that Bill was wrong and act as if it wasn't going to be easy and that too much damage was done. The other half was too overwhelmed with joy and relief to even listen. So Stanley decided to tell Bill that yes, he did fucking know that. He kissed him again, open mouthed and desperate. Bill fell back into the couch, Stanley went with him, laying awkwardly on top. 

"I know that," Stanley whispered between breaths, "I know that, Bill." Reluctantly, they broke apart again. Bill let his forehead rest against Stan's, and melted into the soft moment. He had missed it so fucking much, and the suddenness of the entire thing was far too overwhelming. Bill almost needed a time out, and his heart certainly did. 

"I'm so sorry," Bill said, wishing he could have found those words three months ago. He cursed his own stubborn nature, cursed his ability to repress and ignore his feelings, cursed all that wasted time. They needed it though, and Bill forced himself to acknowledge that. "I'm so sorry-" 

"I should be the one apologising," Stanley protested, followed by, "I've never hated myself more. I'm sorry doesn't even cover it-" 

"Forgiven." Bill kissed him again, arms tightening around him. Stanley moaned into it, desperate after four months starved of physical affection, but then sense came back, and he remembered why they were there in the first place. It certainly wasn't for that, although he was positive that Richie was praying for that outcome. 

"Wait-" Stanley mumbled, peeling himself away and sitting at the other end of the couch. Bill shuffled back over to him, insisting on some form on contact, and laid his head in his lap. Stan didn't protest to that. "Bill..." 

"Does this mean that we're bah-back toh-togehter?" Bill questioned, his voice small. Stanley shrugged, which was not at all the response he had hoped for. 

"I..." Stanley didn't know how to answer that honestly. It wasn't that he didn't want to be with Bill, because that was all he had really wanted for the last four months, it was just that things weren't that simple. They couldn't just pick up from where they'd left off and bounce back in love with each other, it wouldn't work like that, and Stan was rational enough to know that. Just because they had apologised didn't mean that everything would be perfect or easy again, but Bill was too optimistic to think about that. He didn't want to acknowledge that there were still issues, that deep rooted things couldn't just disappear after one apology. "I don't think we should be together yet." 

The expression on Bill's face exuded nothing but confusion. "Buh-Buh-But-" 

"I want to," Stanley cut in, explaining himself. "I want to be with you. I just think we need to ease back into it gently." Bill didn't even try to hide his disappointment, Stanley knew him too well for it to even be worth bothering. He was secretly overjoyed by Bill's eagerness, it was sweet. 

"Right," Bill said, forcing a smile. He didn't seem convinced, or happy about the idea at all. 

"I want to get it right this time," Stanley continued, "But it's not that simple. Things were so, so bad before. It was awful and toxic and damaging and that can't just go away-" 

"But it's n-not like that anymore," Bill protested, "We can d-do th-things dif-diferently." 

"But what if don't?" Stan sighed. His point made perfect sense in his own head - if they started in the deep end, they'd fucking drown. He couldn't think of a way to explain that to Bill without crushing him too much. Bill was too hopeful for his own good, even though not an hour earlier he had dreaded the thought of being in the same room. It was strange how quickly that changed when they put the swords and shields away. Talking had been all they had ever needed, but communication failed them before and Stanley couldn't bare the thought of letting that happen again. "Our issues haven't gone away, Bill. I'm still ill, and I'm still probably going to snap at you and break down and- You get it. The flaws that caused us to ruin our relationship are still there - in both of us. If we dive back in all lovey-dovey acting like we're perfectly fine and everything is fixed, it's going to be harder when we actually fight again - which is inevitable." 

Bill knew that everything Stanley had just said was right. He knew that he had left for a reason, and that reason was still relevant and valid, but it didn't make it any less frustrating. He had, deep down, wanted Stan to come back for four long and draining months - now he was finally expressing that, he was being told he had to wait longer. Bill liked quick and easy, this situation was anything but that. "Guess you're w-worth the w-wait." 

"And the fights." 

"And the fights," Bill repeated, genuinely smiling this time. "But there's gonna be l-less of those, be-because we're gonna talk it out. We're gonna actually c-co-communicate instead of juh-just yelling dumb shit, and I'm not gonna p-p-patronise you when you're down - and I'll t-tidy up after myself." 

"It's a start," Stanley said, "But I can't promise you that I'll be able to keep myself together. If I get angry or overwhelmed I...I can't promise you that I won't yell or- I don't know. I can't promise I can change any of that, because when I'm like that I can't think straight enough to realise what I'm doing. Just know that I don't mean it, that I'll be sorry when I come around. I guess that was one thing I never was last time." Stanley had a bad habit of refusing to apologise, too stubborn to admit that he was capable of being wrong when Bill was the one who set him off. 

"You can't be s-sorry for things you can't control," Bill said. He had always been understanding, far too much for his own good. This though, this maybe was good for him. It was certainly good for Stan. 

"That isn't an excuse," Stanley sighed, "I need to learn. I need to stop taking it out on you." 

"You're ah-acknowledging that," Bill pointed out. It seemed like progress, which was something. Bill would have held onto anything though, in that moment. "Buh-But it might not even be like last time, y-you're doing better now." 

"For now," Stan said, but he refused to hold onto that. He knew all too well that just because he hadn't been as much of an emotional wreck recently, did not mean that he never would be that bad again. Sure, it could get better, however it could also get worse. He just needed to be sure that Bill was going to be able to handle everything that could mean. 

"So where do we p-pick up?" Bill asked, "Do you wanna moh-move back into the ah-apartment?" He did. Stan loved that place more than anywhere else, because it had been his home, his safe and happy place during the best time of his life. Going back there was an exciting thought, but it didn't exactly seem right. Living together wasn't taking it slow, even if it was something they were once entirely accustomed to, even if he did detest living alone. They weren't there yet. Too much time together could only be for the worst. 

"Not yet," Stanley replied, "Give it a little time. I still have a months rent paid for my place, so I can't move out yet. And you're going to have to clean it up before I go back, I'll freak out if I see it in a state. And get new bedsheets before I stay over, please." 

"You're gonna stay over?" There was no hiding Bill's joy, and he had no shame about it. They both laughed at that, and Bill sat back up, spinning so that he could wrap his arms around Stan's waist and hold him against his own body. Stanley let himself be tugged into the new position, appreciating the contact this time. 

"Take me on a date first though." Stan was half joking, smiling at Bill with an impure look in his eye. He and Bill had never been big on 'dates', not formal ones anyway, but they didn't ever need to be. Neither one of them desired that sort of thing, probably because of the pre-built depth of their relationship. Whenever they did go out and make a fuss though, it was more than spectacular. Stan always thought the lack of frequency of the occasions made them more special. If they did that thing weekly, he imagined it would lose the romanticism. This potential date was well overdue. 

Bill melted at the thought. He had been on a lot of dates in the past four months, but only as a stepping-stone to get laid. None of them had meant anything, and the entire event had become a chore by the end of it. Some of them had been alright fun, but never quite comparable to the times he did the same activities with Stan. He had always found himself thinking about that, even after convincing himself he couldn't stand him. 

The idea of a date didn't sound like such a drag if it was with Stanley. With or without the promise of a particular follow up activity. 

By the time Richie and Eddie returned home, Stanley felt almost alright again. He was calm, and the closest to happy he had felt in a long time. It wasn't like Bill could cure him, he knew that, but the hope of having him back was giving him something nice to think about. 

Richie and Eddie could not have been more relieved. Eddie was kind of smug too, because once again he had been right, and his 'plan' had worked. Communication was all they had ever needed, forced or not. Everyone was grateful for it. 

Within two weeks of trying again, Bill and Stan were sleeping together again. Bill swore he never wanted anybody else again. Within a month they were spending every minute of their free time together, going out on dates every week, staying at each other's apartments for countless nights in a row. Within two months, Stanley had given in and moved back home with Bill. Enough of his things had wound up back there anyway, it had just made sense. They fought a little, but never as severely, and never for as long. They handled it better now. 

It took them three months to fully get back together. If it had been up to Bill, he'd have fallen back into Stanley within a week, but that would've been reckless. They didn't want to be reckless anymore. They were being careful. And three months seemed careful enough, but even if it wasn't, Stan didn't care all that much. Enough had been enough. Seven months apart was seven months too long. 

And he was happy. 

He still had moments, more than moments, and bad ones at that. There were days when he'd still sob himself to sleep because of everything. There were days when he wanted to yell at Bill for minor things and clean the apartment until there wasn't a spec of dust in sight or a placemat out of line. There were days when he couldn't get himself out of bed. Those days, Bill spoke to him how he always did. There was no patronising undertone to his voice, he didn't try to bury him with cuddles or kiss the pain away. He let Stan deal with it how he wanted to, and somehow, Stan found them easier to handle that way. He wasn't cured, but he had never expected to be. 

Love, Bill Denbrough learnt, would never be strong enough to pull Stanley out of hell. He gave up trying to pull him out. Bill sat with him in the flames and laughed at the devil. 

He knew there was no certainty, and knew there never could be, but Bill Denbrough truly believed it was going to work this time round. And Stanley, who wasn't usually big on second chances, felt it in his fucking bones. 

They were meant to be, and Stanley Uris had no doubt about it. 

**Author's Note:**

> comment, feed or destroy my ego pls pls pls


End file.
